One Night of Normality
by CodenameMeretricious
Summary: John has a date and wants the flat to himself. Sherlock wants to know why. Fluff and Purple Shirt of Sex.


It was the fourth time that really did John in. The first he could handle, the second he'd dealt with, the third he'd fought. And now he wasn't having any more of it.

"Sherlock, I told you. You can't put severed feet on the table."

His flatmate didn't reply. Not that he ever replied. He sneered on occasion and often rolled his eyes, but the statement (made more times than John cared to count) was not one he usually deigned to comment on.

"Seriously. I thought you'd be out. Didn't Lestrade want you to glance over that cold case? Something about the file being reopened?" he said. John continued to move things about on the mantle, trying without success to remove the pen knife and letters Sherlock had wedged into it the day he'd moved in.

"And miss your date with Serena? Oh, I think not, John," Sherlock said. And smiled. The bastard.

"Jesus Christ, Sherlock."

"Is he coming too?"

"You told me you wouldn't be at the flat tonight." John grit his teeth, wiping a hand over his tired eyes. Sherlock's experiments (something to do with the effect of a hair dryer and massive amount of chemicals on the corroding patterns of rust embedded in flesh) had kept John up half the night. Each time he'd managed to fall back asleep a bang would emit from the kitchen or six hair dryers would go off at once.

Sherlock didn't reply, instead sweeping past John to grab his laptop from the sofa, tapping out a thousand words or so in the few seconds of quiet.

One night. That's all he wanted. Serena had lasted three whole weeks; longer than most of John's dates had made it. Of course, that was because Serena had yet to meet Sherlock. And John didn't intend for that to happen any time soon.

"Sherlock," he began. He wasn't sure how to phrase it, but he would try—initially—not to lose his temper. "I asked you last week, yesterday, and this morning. You said you'd be out."

Sherlock tapped away for another moment before looking up. John knew he remembered. He remembered everything. Well, everything but the solar system. And the Prime Minister. And when to get the milk. Still, he'd heard John. There was no way he hadn't. This evening was planned. John had it planned down almost to the minute he and Serena would return, desperately stumbling up to his room, leaving a trail of clothing behind them before spending a blissful, Sherlock-free evening shagging each other senseless.

"Changed my mind," Sherlock said. He set the laptop down, walking back over to their mess of a kitchen to examine the current foot and rust combo residing on the table. John glared at the back of Sherlock's purple shirt.

"You said—"

"You yourself won't be in this evening. You said you were going out for dinner, isn't that right? Why my being here while you are not offends you, I do not understand."

"Oh, you bloody well understand, you prick," John muttered. He swiped at the newspapers scattered on Sherlock's leather chair, hastily stuffing them into one of the boxes beneath the desk.

"Enlighten me."

Shit. He'd only half meant for Sherlock to hear that last bit.

"I'm not doing this," he said. He stooped to pick up an abandoned mug on the floor near the sofa, finding what looked like a Petri dish filled with nail clippings as he did so.

"I asked a simple question," Sherlock said, back still to John.

"Which you already know the answer to."

"If I did, why would I be asking?" Sherlock turned, watching as John carried the mug into the kitchen, setting it into the sink before moving to the bin. Sherlock strode over and grabbed the Petri dish, storing it in his pocket before John could toss it.

"Because you're an ass," John said. He watched the corner of Sherlock's mouth twitch. Uh oh.

"No, simply confused. Please, John. Enlighten me." He stepped closer, trapping John against the counter.

"No," John said.

Sherlock stepped closer, eyes sparking like they did on a case. Shit. He'd had the same look in his eyes when he'd discovered the elaborate web of Chinese trade last year; when Sherlock had managed to get rid of Sarah by joining them and ensuring her kidnapping on their first date.

"Sherlock," he said. He could try to squeeze past the ever-closing gap between them, but Sherlock was already too close. They were practically chest-to-chest. The bastard. John looked everywhere but at those rapidly twitching, gleaming blue eyes.

Sherlock was silent for a moment, standing so close to John he could feel the slight heat that radiated off him. He wondered at that for a second, how someone so cold could be so warm. He'd honestly been working under the assumption that Sherlock was part vampire and would be icy to the touch. No, he was warm. And far, far too close. John's breathing was heavy and loud, echoing in his ears.

"Please."

The voice was so soft, so different from the arrogant tone he was used to that he looked up. Bad move. Sherlock's eyes sparked even brighter, like a cat dangling a mouse: his plaything. Before he ate it. John gulped, the sound seeming to echo in the tiny kitchen.

"I just…want to understand, John," Sherlock said. His voice was still soft but the glint in his eyes matched the small, vicious smile playing across his lips, his skin nearly as white as his teeth.

"No," John said. He coughed. His throat was rough. "No, you're just being an ass."

Sherlock gave him puppy eyes.

Shit. He didn't even know Sherlock _had_ puppy eyes.

And dammit if they weren't some of the most effective he'd ever seen. But he was a soldier, goddammit. If he could face war, he could face the huge, sad blue orbs and long, dark lashes of his flatmate.

"I have to go," he said.

"No you don't. You've got half an hour at least," Sherlock said. He didn't stop it with the sad face.

"For the love of God, stop it," John said. He tore his gaze away, only to find that it had landed on the top few buttons of Sherlock's shirt directly in front of him. The top few _undone_ buttons of Sherlock's shirt.

"Stop what?" Sherlock asked, innocent as anything.

Shit shit shit. John wriggled to the side, trying to squirm past Sherlock. But his flatmate saw the move and blocked him, stepping even closer. Jesus Christ their thighs were touching. Thank God Sherlock had chosen to wear more than a sheet today.

"John?"

"The fucking puppy eyes and the 'John, I don't understand, please, please explain it to me' shit. You know exactly why I want you to leave the flat tonight and you'll fucking do it because you bloody well promised you would," he said. He closed his eyes, unable to look up at Sherlock's face, straight ahead at his exposed throat, or down at the thin layers of fabric that separated their legs, the heat of Sherlock already seeping through John's jeans.

"I have no idea what you're talking about. I never promised to do anything."

John should really burn that purple shirt. Or not allow Sherlock to wear it as he did—sleeves rolled up almost to his elbows, buttons straining across the surprisingly wide chest and narrow hips...

"No, no, we're not doing this now. I have a date. You have to leave. And the flat is filthy." Without looking anywhere, John managed to shove past Sherlock, knowing he'd only managed the feat because Sherlock had let him. He heard his flatmate snigger. "Stop fucking laughing."

"I'm not laughing," Sherlock said. John could hear the smile in his voice. The fucking twit.

Desperate to ignore his rapid breathing (it was only because an adrenaline filled, fight-or-flight rush had swept through him at being trapped) and the warmth in his belly (because he was nervous about his date, and excited to see Serena), he began grabbing test tubes off the table, hiding them in any cupboard where there was room. He'd leave the severed foot to Sherlock. He wasn't about to touch that and then try to get off with his girlfriend. For all he'd seen, John still had limits.

"The foot, please," he said. He didn't look up, sweeping away what looked like broken razor blades from the worktop. He checked the microwave for eyeballs. He didn't hear Sherlock move. "The foot?" he said again. Finding nothing else to do in the space before him, he clenched his jaw and turned around.

Sherlock was standing there, watching him with an intrigued look. John cleared his throat.

"Yes?" Sherlock said.

"The foot. Move it." John watched as the corner of Sherlock's mouth twitched again, the angular face softening. No. He had to stop staring at his flatmate's lips.

"Of course," Sherlock said. He grinned once more before removing the foot from the table with as much ceremony as possibly. And as slowly as possible.

"Hurry up, I have to leave in a few minutes and I need to be sure you're gone."

"You still haven't answered the question," Sherlock said.

"What question? The question of why you're still here? Because you're an arrogant twat who can't think of others unless it's to deduce how they killed someone. Out."

"But I'm in the middle of an experiment."

"It can wait."

"Where do you suggest I go?"

"Don't care."

Sherlock huffed dramatically and turned toward his room, carrying the severed foot and rust on a clear, blood spattered tray. Fine. If he wanted to sleep in a room that smelled of fermentation and blood, that was up to him. John, however, planned to sleep in a freshly made—soon to be freshly torn up—bed next to a woman who smelled like lilac and vanilla and who didn't, as far as he knew, carry any severed limbs in her purse.

John finished cleaning up the flat, hoping Serena wouldn't spend too much time looking at it anyway. He felt more so than saw Sherlock reappear, leaning on the doorframe between kitchen and living room. Right. Flat was at least somewhat tidy. He had a new box of condoms in his bedside table drawer. And he could once again manage to look at Sherlock without his heartbeat jumping out his throat.

"You'll be late," Sherlock said. His eyes were still bright and John only hoped he wouldn't invite himself along on this date as well.

"As will you."

"But I've nowhere to go, John," Sherlock said. His voice was a mock whine and John wasn't sure he'd survive another round of puppy eyes.

"Go visit Lestrade. Have tea with Mrs. Hudson. Pester Mycroft. I. Don't. Care. Just stay the hell out of the flat tonight."

"Don't people usually leave a sock on the door in these scenarios?" Sherlock mused.

"That's only when their flatmates understand and respect normal social cues and constructs."

"Oh, I understand them. I just don't abide by them. Waste of time, really."

John bit back his response and scooped up his keys from the bowl on the table. He stood up, watching Sherlock. "Well?"

"Yes?" Sherlock said.

John hated it when he deliberately played slow.

"Time for you to go."

Sherlock looked at him, his eyes sweeping from the top of his head to his shoes and back. His belly felt warm again. Jesus Christ he needed to get himself together. He must really, really need to get laid. There was no way he'd be thinking about it if that weren't the case.

Sherlock finally left off his examination, John sighing under the loss of the unwelcome weight of that gaze. It wasn't often that it fell on him, but he was always drained and overly skittish afterwards. He must have gotten the equivalent of ten of those gazes within the last forty-five minutes. He was shocked he could still stand. Then Sherlock chuckled.

"What? What's so fucking funny?" John asked. He realized he was almost shaking. What the hell had his life come to? All he wanted to was a normal night; a normal date with his girlfriend, a night free of high-functioning sociopaths married to their work. What it seemed he was getting instead was one of said sociopaths hell-bent on making his life miserable.

"Oh, nothing. Evening, John." And without another word Sherlock left. John heard the door to the street open and close, and ran to the window to watch as Sherlock made his way down the street, long coat swooshing behind him. John didn't care where the hell he was going, but the fact that he'd given in so easily scared him. He let the idea go, however, as his phone vibrated in his pocket. He was already late.

Arriving twenty minutes late to Serena's flat flustered him, losing their reservation because they were an hour late to the restaurant flustered him, constantly worrying that Sherlock would turn up flustered him, and continuing to wonder if Serena could tell he was thinking about his flatmate (and therefore his actually thinking of his flatmate) flustered him, and by the end of dinner he was so flustered with the entire situation, it was absolutely no surprise to him when she denied his invitation to Baker Street and insisted she could walk home herself.

That there was a more pathetic, utterly lost, and troubled man than John Watson tonight, he highly doubted.

He couldn't even bring himself to be surprised to find Sherlock, settled at the kitchen table with his severed foot and hair dryers, looking like he hadn't left the flat at all. Hell, he'd probably looked at John, read exactly how the date would go, and turned right around after walking a block.

"Good date?"

John couldn't even bring himself to be mad.

"How the hell did you know?" he asked.

"Don't dates usually take much longer?" Sherlock asked.

John groaned, wiping a hand over his face before plopping down at the table beside Sherlock. His flatmate looked at him once before turning back to the foot, dropping some sizzling yellow chemical onto the big toenail. "You didn't even make it two blocks, did you?"

Sherlock grinned. "One and a half, actually. Wanted to give you the benefit of the doubt."

"You're too kind."

"Aren't I?"

They were silent. John ran his finger over the worn edge of the table, wondering how much of the damage had been caused by acid erosion or other chemical spills and how much was from actual use. He bet it was chemical spills. That's how he felt, at least. Like someone might as well have poured a vat of acid over him, scarring him for life and making him completely repellent to the opposite sex.

"It's not your fault, you know," Sherlock said.

John looked up. Sherlock had set the pipette aside. He seemed to be finished with the foot, at least for the time being.

"No, I'd rather say it's yours," John muttered.

"Beg pardon?"

"Sorry. No, actually, I'm not. You did make me late."

"You made yourself late, John."

"Only because I was dealing with you," he said.

"Dealing with me? I'm an adult."

"Yes, and you clearly act like it."

Sherlock didn't respond. John played with the sleeve of his jumper.

"You were thinking about me, weren't you?" Sherlock was grinning.

"Oh, for fuck's sake." John stood, shaking his head.

"And she could tell. Oh, I like this one. Better hold onto her." Dear Lord, the bastard was laughing.

"Well it's too late now, she couldn't wait to get rid of me. And I was _not_ thinking about you. I was on a date, you idiot."

"Yes, on a date and apparently not thinking about the woman you were on the date with. Correct me if I'm wrong, but that's not usually what one's supposed to think about on dates," Sherlock said. He was almost laughing now. That stupid, maniac grin lighting up his face.

"You fucking—"

"Yes, John?"

John wanted to slap him. See if he really could cut himself on those cheekbones…

"You—"

Sherlock grinned.

"You arrogant prick, you ruin everything! Every single date you manage to ruin. All the girlfriends I've had since I moved in with you, you've managed to run off. They all think I live with a madman. I'm like Mr. Rochester, you're the fucking psychopath in the attic. It's not healthy. I can't live with limbs in the fridge and fungus growing in the shower—"

"That was for a case."

"—I don't bloody care if it was for a case! That's what labs are for! Controlled environments. That's all I want. Calm. I just want to come home, have a cuppa, and not worry that you've exploded the living room while I'm out. It's not much to ask. But you have to be such a _dick_ about everything. You can't let one thing go. How the hell is anyone supposed to function around you?"

"If I'm correct, and I always am, you've managed to not only 'function' around me, but thrive. Your limp is gone, your shoulder only rarely bothers you, and you've never slept more soundly in your life."

"You watch me _sleep_?" John really shouldn't have been surprised.

"I fail to see the problem," Sherlock said. John was seconds away from trying to wipe that stupid smile off his flatmate's face.

"The problem? You fail to see the problem?" John clenched his teeth, wrapping his arms around himself to stop his fingers from attempting to gouge out Sherlock's eyes.

"Yes," Sherlock said. He nodded his head a bit, making the succinct statement a complete irony. His eyes were gleaming again.

"The problem," John said. "The problem is _you_."

And before he even realized what he was doing, before he remembered dropping his arms or taking the two steps to Sherlock's side, he found his fingers fisted in the other man's shirt, dragging him up to standing and covering the smartass mouth with his own.

He could feel the smile slide off Sherlock's face and grinned with a triumphant smile of his own.

It lasted a couple seconds, lips firmly pressed against the surprised, half gasp of his flatmate but tongue staying in his own mouth. He'd be damned if he let Sherlock really enjoy it. He finally let go, not meeting Sherlock's eyes as he smoothed out the damn purple shirt that fit his flatmate so perfectly and showed off his pale skin so well it should be illegal. Letting his hands linger on Sherlock's shoulders for a fraction of a second, he finally dropped them, keeping them fisted at his sides.

He heard a soft "oh," escape from Sherlock, but the world's only consulting detective seemed to be incapable of coherent speech.

There, let him chew on the predictability of that.

And so, with a wicked, half smile of his own, John gave his flatmate one last look before turning on his heel and trotting upstairs to his room, the smile growing wider and his insides glowing with a new warmth as he mounted each step.


End file.
